It is the secret desire of all men who catch planes to sit next to a single girl and enjoy several hours of fun conversation. A genuine ego trip.
By the odds it doesn’t happen that way. Men get other men who have horrible habits, men who snore or slurp their food or slap over onto their side of the seats and rest their heads on the other person’s shoulder. Men who chatter, men who want to exchange cards and men who have weak bladders and keep trampling toes as they “scoozeme” past.
So, the other day I am taking a flight and there is this abs stunning girl in the waiting area and everyone is staring at her and I am thinking, please, please, Lord, be a help and let me get the seat next to her. We are moving down the aisle and I can see her settle into 3A.
Omigoodness, I am 3B! Eat your hearts out people, you are looking at the winner, four hours in good company. This was the moment my stars had indicated that. No overweight, sweaty men trying to make a deal. I have Madonna.
I settle down, having given her one fatuous smile in return for glacial glance, one of those tough ones, huh, well one thing we were not short of was time.
So, off to London, I say, all chummy and pleasant.
The plane going somewhere else, she says, her voice like Ella Fitz on a smoky night.
I give her a hearty laugh, the sort men given when they are getting creamed by a lady and don’t want anyone to go figure and hope the pretense will be seen as evidence that they are having a rollicking time.
Live there, I ask manfully — got to keep this conversation going.
No. Visiting? No.
About here, being one of those reasonably intelligent people, I get the drift that we are not hitting it off.
Transit, I say.
She looks at me balefully and sniffs.
Your face is familiar, I say and kick myself for being so obvious. I mean talk about originality ...I can’t believe I said that.
Her look of scorn gels into one of withering disdain.
I struggle for rescue, this is Vohra, he of the rapier sharp wit, always ready with the words and now I am saying. What I meant was are you a star or a model or some sort of celebrity.
She sniffs again.
By now desperate to keep this kite in the air I say, guess you have a cold coming on. She turn nor’ nor’ west and looks out of the porthole even though it is night.
This is so unfair. After years of flying with boring men, smelly men, skinny men with tics, men with oil in their hair, men with bad breath, I get this lovely looking partner for four long hours and what happens, she is made of ice.
And in my vicinity are men smiling me on, men giving me the wink, men looking at me with envy and wishing they could change places.
Dinner is served, I say, cheers.She says, you don’t get the message, do you, I’d rather not talk.
So snubbed, I pretend to look busy, as if the silence is all my idea and I have worked it out myself.
No problem, I say, suit yourself. I will if you’ll let me.
l do a little animated cameo in solo just in case those around us are keeping tabs, like I am having a whale of a time. Don’t want the crew to think I am a loser.
I get up to go to the toilet. Two men are standing there. They look at me with awe. Lucky you, says one, what a stunner. Rivetting, says another.
She is, I say, and that’s not all, she is great conversationalist. Man we haven’t stopped talking since take off. Her first trip to London.
Naw, gwann, really, lucky sod.
That’s not all, I say, I am going to show her the city.
They slap me on the back. Good man.
